


Fuck Atlantis

by CowboyBootsAndHuntersHelper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Atlantis, Gen, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:36:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2006037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CowboyBootsAndHuntersHelper/pseuds/CowboyBootsAndHuntersHelper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the mysterious circumstances surrounding his wife's death, John Winchester set out on a mission to track down what he believes to be the culprit - a demon.  His two sons get dragged along, moving from town to town tracking down leads and rumors, except... that's all they ever seem to find.  Eye witness accounts are well and dandy, but after nearly fifteen years of training and traveling and researching, not one of the Winchester boys has ever managed to lay their eyes on a single supernatural creature.  Convinced their father has gone crazy, Sam gets out as soon as he can, finding shelter with sympathetic family friend Bobby Singer, but Dean stays with their dad - until John goes missing trying to track down a wendigo.</p><p>Five years later, Dean has finally given up hope of ever seeing their father alive again, and what belief he'd had in the man's lifelong mission against monsters is slipping away.  Bobby thought this was what he wanted, but seeing Dean so down and out just feels wrong. So he makes a few calls, and suddenly both boys are thrust back into a world where adventure is around every corner, the lost city of Atlantis is apparently a thing, and their father might not be as crazy as everyone thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck Atlantis

“-in any recorded documentation of the shield, it translates to Ireland, so if this "ancient warriors' resting place" the department head thinks is out there actually does exist, which I am still not a hundred percent on board that it is, Ireland seems to be the most likely location-”

“No, that’s wrong.” Sam pauses as Dean cuts him off, and looks up at his brother.  Dean is leaning back in his chair with a smarmy grin on his face, one of the smiles that means he feels like he has the upper hand.

“What do you mean it’s ‘wrong?’”

“I mean,” Dean places an elbow on the old wooden table, leaning against it as he reaches into his inside jacket pocket. “It’s wrong.” He punctuates the statement by sliding a battered leather book across the table towards his brother.  Sam feels his stomach turn over unpleasantly.  There is no need to lift the cover to know what book that is.  He had just wanted to show Dean what the department was working on this semester, maybe try to include him a little more in Sam’s life, and figured Dean might find the old shield that Sam had dropped onto the table at breakfast with a grin that morning interesting.  He should’ve known Dean would find a way to tie it into the ‘family business’ somehow. He’d been humoring Dean’s obsession with Dad’s work and that bloody journal for the past decade, but things are really starting to get out of hand.

“Dean, what could that journal possibly have to say about mistranslated Anglo-Saxon.”

“It’s not about the translation, jackass,” Dean huffs, shooting Sam a dirty glare. “Look, I may know shit about dead languages, but you see this sigil right here?” He points to a small marking in the lower right quarter of the metal work. “That’s part of Norse mythology, not Celtic.  Specifically, it’s a warding rune from a sacred burial site in the northeastern region of _Iceland_.  Ain’t no reason for that sigil to be on a celt’s shield.” Sam stares aghast at the artifact, pulling it towards him to examine it more closely.  He carefully traces the delicate etching with his fingers.

“Looks like your department head's translation is wrong, buddy,” Dean happily ends his spiel with two solid knocks on the wood of the tabletop before getting up and grabbing himself a beer in celebration of his small victory over his brother.

“Damn, Dean,” Sam stutters, pulling at the collar of his dress shirt. “I think you’re right...”

“Of course I’m right,” Dean smirks, shrugging his shoulders and hopping up onto the counter with his knees wide, making sure to swing his feet against the wood a bit just because Sam can’t stand the scuff marks it leaves.  He sloshes a bit of his drink onto his gray t-shirt, sparing the already worn and faded work shirt no mind, and hops right back into his victory speech. “You may be the book-smarts of this operation, but you’re getting a little rusty on your lore, dude.” Sam’s lips twist into a thin grimace a the mention of lore, and it doesn’t escape Dean’s notice.

“Alright, alright, what’s the face?” he quips over the mouth of his beer bottle.

“What face?”

“That face.” Sam drums his fingers on the table nervously.

“I don’t know, man, it’s just... all the lore that Dad made us learn, it’s just... it’s just lore, Dean.  Myth, legend, rumors... it’s not exactly useful.” Dean faces drains of color and Sam stands up as his brother pushes himself off of the counter.

“Not... not useful? Sam, I just basically called an entire goddamn department out on something they missed thanks to that ‘useless’ lore.”

“No, you caught a mistake thanks to the happy coincidence that one of those ridiculous legends happened to be restricted to a specific area! That’s history, Dean, not lore.” Sam can’t count the number of times he and Dean have cycled around and around this conversation.  At least once every three months, like clockwork, Sam tries his best to knock some realistic sense into Dean’s head and, in return, the stubborn ass refuses to listen.  Instead, Dean blindly continues to worship and adore a father figure crafted somewhere in his imagination, a man who never really existed.  Sam pities his brother’s view of their father, more so than the man himself.  Dean’s John Winchester was a man who was just following leads, tracking down clues, regretfully leaving his children behind from time to time as he led a noble quest, trying to save people from the things that go bump in the night.  In reality, John Winchester was a madman so driven by delusions of supernatural fantasy that he dragged his two young sons out of their happy, normal lives and into a world of skeevy ‘experts’ and skeevier motel rooms, all but forcing his eldest son into a caretaker role at the tender age of six years old as John routinely left them alone to follow up on ‘leads.’ Sam was getting sick and tired of Dean’s refusal to accept the truth of their genuinely fucked up childhood.

“Damn it, Dean, none of what Dad told us, the lore, the creatures, the stories, the things he taught us damn near religiously about how to identify them, how to kill them... none of it was ever true!”

“Dad believed it well enough!”

“Yeah, and he followed that... that bullshit out onto a fool’s mission that got him killed!” Dean’s expression shuts down immediately and Sam knows he’s said too much.  John’s disappearance during a ‘wendigo hunt’, although a full five years ago, was still a sore spot for Dean.  He had never really been able to accept the fact that their father could get hurt on these fool’s errands, let alone die, and after finding the empty bottles and John’s old contact book in the garbage about three months back, Sam knows that his brother has only recently given up the search.  He tries backpedalling.

“Dean... Dean I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“No, you mean exactly what you said.  You don’t believe this ‘bullshit?’” Dean, angry and impulsive, grabs one of the kitchen chairs and flings it across the room.  The ratty wood breaks apart on contact with the counter. “You think your fucking ‘facts’ are better than this? Better than what I’ve built my entire fucking life around? What Dad spent his whole life studying, what he died for? Fine! You’ve got a lecture to get to anyway, yeah? Go do your damn day job.  I’m gonna go to the garage and do mine.”

“Dean, wait,” Sam calls out after him as Dean grabs his backpack and slams through the front door.  Dean doesn’t even turn around.

“Shit,” Sam groans, dropping into the remaining chair and resting his head in his hands.  He shouldn’t have said anything, he knows how touchy Dean is about their dad and the family ‘legacy.’ With nothing else to do, Sam gathers up his papers, grabs his dark dress jacket from the coat stand, and leaves for his guest lecture on Artifacts and International Customs Law at the museum.

 

* * *

 

It’s not until late afternoon, when Dean’s elbow deep in the engine of a classic Ford out in the Salvage Yard, that Bobby Singer wanders out from the house to speak with him.

“Now I don’t know what’s got your panties all in a twist today, but it sure as hell ain’t helping your work.” Dean grimaces and ducks out from under the hood.  He knows Bobby has a point; he’s been off his game all day.  Fights with Sam aren’t exactly uncommon things, but that’s kind of the whole point of the matter.  Dean can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something in the air telling him that it’s time to make a decision, that this has gone on too long, and that it’s time to choose between the past and the present, between John and Sam, before the choice is stolen from him thanks to harsh words and stubborn pride.  The choice has been weighing on him car after car, and though Dean’s been trying to not let it affect his performance, he knows he wasn’t working to his usual standard.  Rolling his shoulders and wincing at the cracking joints, he wipes his brow with his forearm.  A thin trail of grease is left in it’s path.

“Sorry, Bobby, I just...” Dean leans against the large toolbox behind him and worries an old grease rag in his hands. “I had another falling out with Sam.”

“Damn it boy, how many times ‘re we gonna have to have this conversation.  You two are fam-”

“Family, I know.  S’just... it was about Dad again.” Bobby sighs, readjusting his old ball cap and taking a seat on the stool next to where Dean stands.  He reaches into the red cooler behind the toolbox and pulls out a couple of beers.  He passes one to Dean, who nods in thanks.  Bobby is silent, and waits for Dean to continue on his own.

“Am I... am I doing the right thing, Bobby?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been working on this for so long... following Dad’s research, trying to finish what he started... I damn near picked up where he left off, saving clues and artifacts, hunting down old legends... but that’s just it, isn’t it?  They’re just... just legends.  Can I really spend the rest of my life chasing ghosts?” Bobby frowns, scratching at his short beard contemplatively as he studies Dean’s dejected posture. “He died doing this. And I’m not an idiot.  I know he wasn’t exactly the model father.  I’m not the oblivious zealot I know Sam thinks I am.  He... he wasted so much opportunity, Bobby.  For... for family, for happiness...” Dean trails off, looking away for a moment as he swallows heavily. “Is it really ever gonna be worth sacrificing all that?” Bobby glances at Dean, expecting to see the young boy he had once tried so hard to snatch out of that terrible life, only to see a young man who finally wanted to leave it.  Somehow, it doesn’t feel anywhere as good as he had expected.  He steels his nerves and stands, already regretting every word about to come out of his mouth.

“This ain’t like you, boy.  I’ve told you a thousand times that you’re chasin’ down a dead end, trailin’ after your old man the way you do, but not once have I ever seen you lose faith in him.  So are these your own words, or is this your brother talkin’?” Dean peers up at his boss, the man who he can finally admit to himself has been the best father he could ever have hoped to have, before looking down at the rag in his hands.

“Maybe I’m just finally starting to see the sense you two have been talking.” Dean hops down from the toolbox, tossing away the rag and heading back towards the Ford.  He’s tired of the constant pull and push between Sam and the lore, tired of ruminating on the past and never being able to press on to the future, tired of wondering if Sam was right, if Dad was right, if any of them were fucking right...  He’s just done with the whole deal.  It’s not worth it, not really.  Maybe if there had been something, some sign that there really was a future with this lore stuff, that it could take him somewhere, sure, but... for now, it's time to put it aside.  It was time to put it aside a long time ago.

“Dean, I-”

“It’s fine Bobby.  It’s time I moved past this stupid pipe dream anyway.  I mean, c'mon.  Monsters? Seriously"  Dean laughs joylessly. "What the fuck was I thinking, Bobby?  I’m just lucky I’m realizing that before it swallows me up like it did Dad.” Dean stares down into the engine for a moment, unfocused, before shaking his head and trying to snap out of it.  He can do it, he can move on from this.  He has to, for the sake of salvaging what family he does have left. “Let me just finish up on this Ford, yeah? I’ll take care of this and head on home.” Bobby lingers for a moment, feeling helpless as he watches Dean go about his work with an air of regret that just feels wrong hanging around the usually proud and cocky man.  Making his choice, Bobby leaves the Salvage Yard, taking the shortcut through the garage serving as the business entrance and into the house.  He stops in the make-shift study that doubles as his office and drops heavily into his chair behind the oak desk at the back of the room.

After watching those two boys get pulled around the country by the man who used to be his best friend and business partner, offering what little support he could whenever he could, Bobby had wanted for nothing more than to finally get them out of the life.  Sam had shown up on his doorstep in tears at sixteen, faded duffel slung over his shoulder and saying he wanted to go to high school.  He and John never talked in person again after that, but Sam went to school and he was good at it.  Dean had never wanted out, never once questioned his father’s beliefs... until the man disappeared on him.  Then, Dean knocked on his door for the first time in seven years asking, begging, for his help.

“Dad’s on a hunting trip,” Dean had said. “He hasn’t been home in a few months.”

Bobby takes a key from where it’s taped under his chair.  The bottom drawer of his desk unlocks with a squeak, and the wood catches a little as he pulls it open.  He runs his hands softly over the cover of a weather worn journal, untouched for the two decades since his wife’s death, and carefully pulls it out.  The dust on the cover makes a thick cloud as he blows it off, carefully peeling apart sticky pages to reveal accounts and stories of monsters, of legends, written in his own hand.  That day when Dean came to him, he had seen an opportunity and he took it.  He told Dean that John had called him before leaving, that John had told him he was headed southeast following a lead on what he thought was a particularly vindictive wendigo, and Bobby helped Dean scrape together a search party.  They came back with nothing, but Bobby knew that was going to happen.  He had burned John’s letters telling him about a possible job out in the seas surrounding Iceland and Greenland.  He never mentioned the missive detailing the sinking of the U.S.S. Goddess, the boat upon which John had hitched a ride, and he shoved his deception to the back of his mind for the sake of two boys and their chance at family.  It took time, but Dean slowly began pulling out of the life.  Bobby had offered him a steady job in the same town as Sam (and, incidentally, himself) and Dean had accepted.  He had been waiting for this day, the day Dean finally washes his hands completely of "hunting" and all the horrible trimmings that accompany it, but it still felt wrong.  Dean loved the life, worshipped his father, and Bobby knew that it wasn’t all so much hooey and gibberish as he and Sam toted it to be.  He had come to terms with his lies, telling himself that it was for their own good, but seeing Dean today made him doubt that.  Hesitantly, he reaches for the ancient phone hanging on the wall.  With his other hand, he picks up the business card that has been sitting on his desk since it was sent with the last of John’s letters.  He considers it for a few minutes before finally biting the bullet and dialing the number.  The line is picked up faster than he expects.

“Uh, yeah, I need to speak to Mr. Milton? I’m an old friend of John Winchester.” As the line transfers, one thought runs repeatedly through his head.

‘ _Aw hell, I’m gonna regret this._ ’

 

* * *

 

Sam’s pretty proud of his lecture if he does say so himself.  The groups throughout the day seemed to be appreciative of his efforts, and his monitoring professor was impressed by how well he had commanded and kept their attention.  True, his large frame tends to help in that respect, but Sam likes to think that most of it comes from his confidence and knowledge of the subject at hand.  Either way, the room is all smiles as he packs up at the end of the last round for the day, undergrads and career historians alike mumbling and discussing his lecture with enthusiasm as they trickle out the door into the swiftly darkening evening.  Sam hides a giddy grin behind his stack of papers, slotting them carefully into his briefcase when footsteps approach the front desk.

“Classy speech, Winchester.” Sam looks up at first, finding no one, but then quickly adjusts his gaze down a few notches to find a short but sharply dressed (albeit obnoxiously mismatched) man bouncing excitedly on his toes.  His amber eyes sparkle with mischief, matching his slightly crooked smile with teeth just barely peeking out past his lips.

“Um, thank you. I didn’t catch your name-”

“Milton.  Gabriel Milton,” he says, extending a hand to Sam.  Sam takes it and has to quickly hide a grimace at the stickiness between Gabriel’s fingers.

“Sorry bud,” the man apologizes with a sheepish smile. “Guilty pleasure, and all that.” Gabriel gestures with a nod to the back corner where he had been lounging, watching Sam’s last lecture of the day, and Sam feels a pang of pity for the janitor who would have to pick up all of the candy wrappers littering the area.  Gabriel was already pulling out another piece of wrapped candy from the pocket of his silky orange vest.

“Right... so, you... liked the lecture?”

“Eh,” Gabriel drawls, losing attention in the man before him and moving along the desk, picking up the resident speaker’s paperweight and tossing it from hand to hand. “Yes... ish? I mean, not really my scene, you know, the whole academia schtick.” He hops up onto the polished wood of the desk, and Sam is grateful that the man’s grey slacks have no buttons to scratch its finish. “Which is exactly why I need someone like you, Sam.”

“You ‘need’ me?” Sam stares at Gabriel, curious about a prospective opportunity but wary of any potential pitfalls. “For what, exactly?”

“Oh, those details can all be hashed out later,” Gabriel passes the query off dismissively, rolling the paperweight away down the desk in favor of smoothing out his bright purple tie, leaving Sam to catch it lest it fall off the edge and break. “In fact, I’ve got a bit of a business meeting going on at my place late tonight. You interested?” Sam fully intends to say no, already frustrated at this flippant man and his complete disregard for other people’s property, but then he thinks of Jess and the apartment he’d been eyeing for them for the past few weeks.

“This... whatever it is that you need me for... will it pay?” At Sam’s question, a dangerous golden glint shines in Gabriel’s eyes.  Sam nearly regrets his open ended response, wishing for a moment that he had just outright said no.

“Oh yes. It will pay most handsomely. If you succeed.”

“And I don’t have to commit right now, I can wait for the details?”

“Well, it won’t really be much waiting,” Gabriel trails off and shrugs, hopping down from the desk and making his way out the door without even a mention to follow him.  Flabbergasted and left hanging, Sam pauses only for a moment before he grabs his briefcase and rushes out after him.  Even with the advantage of his much longer legs, Sam finds himself struggling to keep up with the smaller man’s energetic pace. “It’s just a matter of my brother rounding up our other guest, and we can get this show on the road good and proper!” Gabriel reaches the outer doors of the museum and pushes both of them open, giving himself a magnificent double-door entrance into what is essentially an empty parking lot.  Sam finds himself praying that whatever this opportunity is, is won’t involve interacting with Gabriel Milton for any extended length of time.

“Other guest?”

“Well, book-smarts are all fine and dandy, but this sort of endeavor calls for a specialist of certain other sorts of information.  It’s gonna take the both of you to get this plan going,” Gabriel continues, all the while leading Sam to a gaudy white limousine parked across several spaces in the center of the lot.  Sam takes a minute to stare at it in a mixture of apprehension and thinly veiled disgust.  Gabriel opens the door and motions for him to clamber in first.  Reluctantly, Sam ducks his head under the low frame and slides across the front-facing bench seat.  Gabriel follows shortly after, slamming the door and sliding across the rear-facing seat to the minibar stocked with, unsurprisingly, more candy. “Course, I’m not worried too much about that.  Sure, family usually knows how to push all the wrong buttons, but when push comes to shove and it’s time to nut up, they come through for each other.” As the engine roars to life, Gabriel pops a red lollipop into his mouth and grins winningly at his near captive guest, while Sam’s brain is already rocketing through and around Gabriel’s choice of words to the only apparent conclusion. “I have a feeling you two’ll do just fine.”

 

* * *

 

When Dean gets home, the house is as dark as the storm clouds creeping into the night sky.  He isn’t surprised. Sam had made a pretty steady habit of staying out late after their fights, mostly to avoid having to deal with Dean’s moping, and Dean can’t blame him for it.  To be fair, if Sam were here Dean would probably just pick another fight with him anyway, if only for the sake of working off the tension that’s been building since their spat that morning.  He unlocks the door with a heavy sigh, neglecting the light switch and just dropping his pack unceremoniously onto the ground.  It’s worn zipper gives out on impact, the cherry on top of a shitty day, and its contents scatter across the living room floor.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean yells, kicking at the bag and sending it sliding across the hardwood floor.  The first flash of lightning illuminates the room as the bag skids to a halt at the feet of a stranger standing casually at the window.  The man is looking out at the approaching storm with apathy, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he is in a house that is not his.  One hand dangles loosely at his side, the other pushes back the edge of a sketchy looking overcoat and rests in the pocket of his dress slacks. His features are backlit with electric blue as the thunder crashes and in the time it takes for him to turn from his pensive pose at the window, the end table drawer is already laying upturned on the floor and Dean has the spare pistol leveled at his forehead.

“What the fuck are you doing in my home?” The intruder is unfazed by both the pistol and Dean’s snarl, leisurely completing his about face and taking a few steps across the room. His voice drifts across the space with a low rumble, nearly blending in with the thunder in the background.

“Hello, Dean.” The hammer clicks as Dean cocks the gun and the stranger finally takes pause.  Another strike of lightning shows Dean the man’s face, and either he’s an idiot who doesn’t understand that Dean has a fucking gun pointed at his head or he’s got one hell of a poker face.  Steady blue eyes nearly as electric as the storm brewing outside hold a steady gaze, and although the stranger makes no move to continue forward, he very clearly isn’t planning on moving back either.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Dean layers bravado over every word, beginning a slow circle around the outer edge of the living room.

“My name is Castiel. My brother sent me to speak to you about a business opportunity.” Dean laughs aloud at the thought.

“Business? You show up in my locked house uninvited in the middle of the night to talk business? Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” Castiel tilts his head and furrows his brow, and Dean bristles at the thought that this man might have the gall to act confused.

“Gabriel seemed certain that you would find this opportunity welcome.”

“Did he now,” Dean spits, registering the name and filing it away for later.  After all, it wasn’t a stretch to assume that they were after him thanks to his work with John - between the ruffled “witnesses,” sleazy bars, and the cheap ass motels, they managed to make a few enemies here and there, and Dean wouldn’t be surprised if this whole thing was one of those old loose ends coming back to bite him in the ass. “And who told good old Gabe I’d be interested, huh? Sorry to break it to you bud, but they had it wrong. The only thing I’m interested in is getting you the hell out of my house.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel does take a step back now, though no trace of fear or remorse seems to cross his face, and holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “According to my brother, Robert Singer had seemed absolutely certain you were looking for just this sort of job-”

“Wait... Bobby sent you?” Dean lowers the pistol just a bit, scanning Castiel’s face for any sign of deceit.  The other man nods.

“He contacted Gabriel earlier today, and my brother has set up a meeting where he would like to discuss the details of our venture.” Words race through Dean’s mind at a mile a minute.  Why would Bobby have called them?  This could be a trap.  Who in their right minds would just show up in somebody’s house like this?  It was probably a trap.  What kind business was this guy talking about?  Did it have to do with Dad?  He thought Bobby had wanted him out of this sort of stuff. Oh God, this is definitely a trap. 

“I’m assuming this meeting is at this Gabe guy’s place?”

“Gabriel’s, yes, and you can put that down,” Castiel offers, taking note of the pistol for the first time since Dean had drawn it. “I assure you, I’m here neither to hurt you nor to force you to go.  If you aren’t interested, you aren’t interested.” He punctuates this with an attempt at a nonchalant shrug, and it’s so awkward that Dean actually hurts a little bit.

“What’s in it for me if I go?” He doesn’t put the gun all the way down, but he drops most of the aggression in his voice.

“At the moment, nothing.” Dean snorts at the prospect.

“You bust in here, you lurk in the damn dark all dramatic and shit till I show up, and without even a ‘Hi, I’m Cas, how are you today,’ you launch into this spiel about a 'proposition' and I’m supposed to just tag along for shits and giggles? Not exactly a killer sales pitch, buddy.” Castiel squints at him, turning his head as if the new angle would afford him new insight into the way Dean’s mind works.

“What’s in it for you if you stay here?” For a moment, Dean doesn’t have an answer.  Truthfully, there isn’t much prospect for him in Sioux Falls. There’s the job at Bobby’s, and Sam, but other than that... Dean licks his lips, bringing his left hand up to his face and running it down his jaw as he thinks.

“When is this shindig supposed to start, anyway?”

“We can leave as soon as you’re ready,” Cas offers, already turning and making his way to the front door.

“Hey... hey! I didn’t agree to this yet, man. Casti-... Cas!” Dean curses and stumbles after him, unceremoniously tossing the pistol onto the end table and tripping over a few of the things fallen from his bag as he grabs his leather jacket from the rack beside the door.  Castiel isn't fazed at all as he crosses the threshold into the storm, even with the heavy wind whipping his overcoat around him as he moves steadily through the rain towards the Impala. Dean squints as the freezing water strikes him in the face, hunkering down in his coat against the sting of the wind and rain as he locks up (fat lot of good it did him before) and staggers across the lawn.  Cas waits patiently for him by his car, and as Dean makes his way around the hood he gives the man a judgemental glance.

“What, didn’t bring your own car?” he yells across the Impala, raising his voice to be heard over the howls of the wind.

“My brother dropped me off a few hours ago,” Castiel responds. He barely raises his voice, and Dean can hear him perfectly.  It’s just his luck, he figures, that the wind would be blowing in from Cas’ side.

“So what were you gonna do if I’d said no?” Dean shouts in return, fingers already freezing as he fumbles with the cold metal of his keys.  Cas levels a steady gaze at him and suddenly Dean feels uncomfortable in his own skin.

“You weren’t going to say no.”

“Okay, that’s creepy,” Dean mumbles as he gets the car unlocked and climbs in, more to himself than the odd man sliding into the car next to him. “Alright. Where are we going?”

 

* * *

 

“So that’s the plan in a nutshell!” Gabriel crows, lounging victoriously in the obnoxiously plush chair behind an equally extravagant desk.  Across from him, Sam and Dean sit gobsmacked in the guest chairs, eyes wide and jaws open at the venture set before them.  Castiel stands to Gabriel’s right, shuffling uncomfortably with a sympathetic grimace on his face.

“I realize it seems a little far-fetched,” the quieter man offers, only to be cut off.

“No shit, man,” Dean finds his voice, huffing and leaning back in his chair. “Atlantis?  Are you shitting me?  That’s... that’s not even possible-”

“It is, actually,” Gabriel cuts across smoothly, his jovial demeanor and exuberant hand gestures gone as he leans solemnly towards the brothers. “Theoretically, you know it’s feasible, Sam.” Dean looks to his brother, who’s brow is furrowed in concentration as he leafs through the papers Gabe had handed them to look over.

“It... it is true.  Academics have long debated the feasibility of an ‘Atlantis.’ Especially after the unearthing of Pompeii, the likelihood of a city-state the proposed size of Atlantis being wiped off the map by a cataclysmic event is far less laughable than it might seem...”

“Seriously?  I mean, seriously?  You can’t really be considering this Sam!”

“Well-”

“I’m surprised at you, Dean.” Dean turns from his brother to glare at their host.  He's getting real sick and tired of this guy cutting them off. “From what Bobby Singer told me about you boys,” Gabriel slides a hand across the surface of his paper littered desk, grabbing a few sheets and shuffling them almost absent-mindedly. “I thought you’d be the one most ready to jump at this opportunity, Dean-o.”

“One, you don’t fucking know shit about me,” Dean snarls, grabbing the papers in Gabe’s hands and slamming them back down to the expensive desk.  Castiel steps forward, as though ready to spring to his brother’s aid, but Gabriel waves him off.  He steps back to his spot, eyeing Dean nervously. “And two, what the hell would make you think that, huh?  What kind of fool do you take me for to think I would just drop all my shit and go chasing after this mystical fantasy island no one in thousands of years has been able to find?”

“Need I remind you,” Gabriel’s voice turns flat and cold, with an icy edge to it that raises goosebumps straight up the back of Dean’s neck in spite of the smaller man's previously laughable dispostion. “You’ve dropped a hell of a lot more for a whole lot less, Mr. Winchester.” He motions towards Cas and the other man steps forward, pulling John’s ratty journal from the inside of his coat and handing it to Gabriel.

“Hey, when the hell did you-”

“Oh come on Dean! You don’t think I’d send my baby bro just to hang out on your couch for an hour or two until you got home without some kind of ulterior motive, do you?” Dean sits on the edge of his seat, knuckles turning white as he grips the gilded armrests, and he tosses a beseeching glance over at Sam.  Sam just shrugs at him, shifting uncomfortably on the velvet cushion.  Gabe cracks open the book and lazily flicks through a few of the pages.  Dean grits his teeth, having few other options than to watch this asshole pawing all over his dad’s journal.  He catches Castiel’s eyes, and at least the bastard looks guilty.

“You know,” Gabriel’s voice cuts across Dean’s thoughts. “I don't see much difference between what I’m proposing and what you and Dear Old Dad have been spending your lifetimes doing.  Why shouldn’t hunting down an ancient civilization be right up your alley?  Especially when you used to hunt down equally ancient creatures, based off of little more than a bit of lore and some luck.”

“In case you haven’t quite gotten to that part of the story yet,” Dean snarks back. “We never found shit.  All we got outta that were a couple of enemies, a few broken bones, and alcohol poisoning.  It’s all a load of mythology and crap, and I’m fucking out, so you can take your little adventure and stick it where the sun don’t shine.” Sam listens to his brother in shock.  He too had expected Dean to jump at this chance.

“Dude, do you maybe want to at least talk this over before you-”

“No, Sam, I don’t.” Dean gets up from the chair, towering over Gabriel and his stupid fucking fancy ass desk. “This is bullshit, and I’m done with it.” Just for good measure, he grabs the edge of his chair as he turns on his heel, throwing the uncomfortable seat to the ground as he starts storming from the room.

“Dean!” Sam starts to follow him, but Castiel stops him with a hand on his arm.  The lean, unassuming guy is stronger than he looks, and Sam didn’t even see him cross the room.

“You know, John was headstrong and stubborn, sure, but he never gave me this much trouble,” Gabriel drawls coldly from his desk. “Such a pity about that last expedition.” One hand already on the door frame, Dean draws up short.

“What was that?” Dean mutters lowly, eyes narrowing as he turns back toward the front of the room.  Gabriel sits with his elbows on the desk, fingers folded in front of his face.  All the jovial, careless frivolity has left Gabriel’s face.  His expression is solemn, but his eyes shine with triumph.

“It’s unfortunate,” the wealthy man continues, keeping unbroken, almost heavy, eye contact with Dean. “At the time, we didn’t quite have the technology we needed to launch such an endeavor safely.  His death was an tragic loss, but the knowledge and perspective he brought to the team?” Gabriel clicks his teeth and leans back into his chair with a hum, loosely trailing a few fingers along the dense wooden frame already slipping back into his childish, ‘no big deal’ attitude.

“Invaluable.”

Before Sam can really register the implications behind Gabriel’s words, his brother has already flung himself across the pretentious desk.  Dean slams his body into Gabriel with enough force to send the heavy office chair rocking to the ground with a bang, and cuts off Gabe’s protest at the inevitable dent in his flooring with a solid strike to the smaller man’s nose.  Castiel seems just as stunned as Sam, and it takes both men a moment to leap into action as blood splatters the hardwood floor.  Dean gets in another good punch with his left to Gabriel’s cheekbone, and one more with his right elbow across Gabe’s face, before Sam is pulling him away and Cas is hovering nervously by his brother.

“Ah ha ha fuuuuck...” Gabriel hisses as Castiel helps him sit up, pushing away the hand anxiously trying to dab away at the blood coming from his nose. “Damn, boy!” He laughs in spite of the pain blossoming across his face. “Forget being our lore specialist, I might hire you on as our muscle!”

“You fucking piece of shit!” Dean seethes, pulling against Sam. “What the hell did you do to our Dad!”

“Easy there tiger,” Gabe chides as Cas helps him to his feet. “I didn’t do anything. The ship...” Gabriel cuts himself off and shares a concerned glance with his brother. “Well... let’s say it didn’t quite hold together properly in the cold water, and only a few folks made it off alive.  Mostly, in fact, due to darling daddy.  Besides, who should you really be angry at here?  The guy who hired a man to do a job he said he could do?  Or the one who covered up the story of a sinking ship with some line about a monster hunt in the jungle?” Dean’s mind rocketed through years of stories and searching and grasping straws and the realization that the one man standing in the middle of it all - the man who he had trusted implicitly, who throughout his life had constantly stepped in to fill John’s often empty shoes - had known what had really happened all along, and suddenly Dean couldn’t stand up anymore.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he murmurs, reaching out blindly for his brother. Sam takes his arm and leads him back around the desk, easing Dean into the remaining chair.  His brother sits, silent now, doubled over with his head in his hands and no doubt replaying every conversation he and Bobby ever had about John, but Sam’s mind is racing ahead in its own way.  He starts pacing along the front of desk as he begins trying to work through Gabriel’s bombshell.

“So that ship that went down was what, a trial run of this whole Atlantis thing?”

“In a nutshell,” Gabe answers him in a nasal tone as Cas sets his chair to rights and Gabriel slides back into it. “It was the... trial run of the trial run, I guess. We were testing out the eventual dive site, when the hull split.”

“And now you’re trying it again?” Sam continues incredulously. “And trying to hire my brother and I for the same suicide mission?”

“Not quite,” Gabriel grins. “A few years ago we acquired a new partner who drafted up an experimental design for a submarine vehicle using a material compound similar to carbon fiber, but infinitely more durable.  Quite genius, really, hard to believe MIT kicked him out...”

“Fan-freakin’tastic,” Dean laughs lowly from between his hands. “A fucking drop out.  Oh yeah, it already sounds like a much better plan.”

“Regardless,” Castiel’s cool voice cuts across the tense atmosphere of the room, commanding the brothers’ attention.  Dean looks up, nausea curling up even tighter in his belly at the stern ferocity in Cas’ expression, the sudden tension in his muscles, and the powerful set of his shoulders.  For the first time, he doesn’t look like he’s drowning in his too large overcoat.  In fact, Castiel looks dangerous. “Everything is in order.  This mission has been ages in it’s coming, and for the first time in a very long time it is finally within our means to achieve it.  By whatever means necessary.  If that means moving forward without the two of you, so be it, but you have an opportunity to be part of something truly great, for all of the work-” Cas grabs John’s journal from Gabriel’s desk and thrusts it at Dean’s chest, leaving the older Winchester fumbling to catch it even as Castiel holds his gaze. “-and all of the pain and suffering you have endured to _mean_ something.” Castiel’s chest is heaving as he finishes, restraint visibly tugging on the end of every word as he keeps his voice level, even as his audience can see that he’s itching to yell.  As though realizing himself, Cas breaks off and flushes, eyes sliding off to the side and tongue nervously lapping at his bottom lip.  Even Gabriel sits in stunned silence at the outburst, though he is the first to recover.

“What my brother is trying to say is,” he offers, jolting Sam and Dean out of their stupor. “This is very important. Like, capital “I” important.  Do not make a decision you will regret.” Castiel nods, stepping back to his position beside Gabriel. “You will have a little time to consider, but as Cas said, this is happening, and it’s happening on a schedule. The ship is leaving from Newport News in Virginia in two weeks, with or without a Winchester or two.”

 

* * *

 

“I still think this is a stupid fucking idea.”

“You didn’t have to come, Dean,” Sam sighs as he grabs his duffel from the Impala’s trunk, unceremoniously tossing the other bag to his brother.  Dean catches it with a huff.

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t gonna let my baby brother go on a suicide mission alone, was I?” He shoulders the heavy pack with a grumble.  Sam rolls his eyes, but smiles when a soft laugh carries over his shoulder.

“The way the two of you carry on, you’re more likely to kill each other than go down with the ship!” Sam laughs as he turns to face his girlfriend.

“You know, I wouldn’t be surprised,” he murmurs, wrapping his hands around her waist and pulling her close, ignoring the cooing noises being made at his back. “I’m gonna miss you...”

“I know, Sam,” Jess pulls back and smiles at him. “But you know I’m gonna be right here waiting, though, right?”

“Yeah... about that, actually...” Concern flits over Jess’ face as Sam steps back and fumbles around in his pocket. “I was gonna wait until we got back so I could but a really nice one, but I couldn’t... I didn’t want to leave with saying this, so...”

“Oh my God, Sam...” Jess stammers, bringing a hand to her mouth in shock.  Even Dean goes quiet as Sam pulls out a simple white gold band set with a small stone.

“When we’re back I can buy you a better one, one with a big stone in whatever style you want, but for now... this is all I can offer you.  I know it’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got, and I want to be with you forever.  Jessica, when we get back, will you marry me?” Jess squeals in delight and Dean turns away to give them their moment, pretending to dig through his pack for something and stifling a giggle when Jessica hits Sam and yells at him that the ring is perfect and that he better not show up with a new one because she isn’t gonna wear it.  Dean searches the trunk in case of dropped items for much longer than necessary as cheerful proposal gives way to teary good-bye, and when Sam claps him on the shoulder he ignores the track marks on his brother’s cheek.

“Hey, Jess is uh... ready to head back with the Impala whenever you are.  I know you want a last little bit of alone time with the love of your life too, but it’s starting to get ridiculous, man.”

“Shut up,” Dean laughs, elbowing Sam playfully as he moves around the car to hug Jess.  She grabs onto his shirt as he starts to pull away and hisses into his ear, trembling.

“You bring him back alive, you hear me?”

“If it kills me,” Dean promises, placing a gentle kiss to the outside of cheek. “C’mon then,” he breaks off loudly, shouldering his duffle and turning back toward his brother and the docks. “Let’s get this ridiculous show on the road!” Sam and Jess share one more kiss before the Impala’s engine turns over, Dean yells at Jess not to put a single scratch on his baby, and the two brothers are left squinting into the morning sun as they survey the throngs of people milling about the docks.

“Now which rust bucket is our rust bucket,” Dean mumbles under his breath as they start walking.

“Well, according to Gabe, it was originally going to be docked at a private beach down the coast because it’s not technically supposed to exist...”

“Hold up,” Dean swivels around halting his brother with a firm palm to Sam’s chest. “What exactly does that mean?” Sam shifts anxiously from foot to foot.

“Apparently, it’s... they couldn’t build the new sub from scratch, so they modified an old Russian war sub.  Except, a big ass Russian Typhoon sitting in the middle of a U.S. shipyard? Not exactly low profile, especially since it was supposed to have been scrapped years ago.”

“Dude, how the hell did he even-”

“I don’t know, Dean.  Maybe this plan has been in the works even longer than we thought.  Money is obviously a non-issue, so maybe Gabriel’s been preparing for literally any possibility.”

“So why are we here, then, if the sub isn’t supposed to be?” Dean huffs, falling back into step beside his brother as Sam presses on down the busy boardwalk.

“Turns out Gabriel got lucky.”

“Oh God, ew.”

“Not like that, Dean,” Sam sighs, his attempt at giving his brother a long-suffering glare diminished as he squints into the sun, scanning the boats lined up as they reach the docking area. “They were looking for a place to tie the sub up when he got a call from an old friend of Dad’s who said he could pull some strings. ” Dean pulls a face.  John’s "associates" had never really been the most trustworthy of people, and Sam’s own pinched expression shows that at least on this topic, the brothers agree.

“Was the name familiar to you?”

“No, not really, but the info he gave on Dad was solid.  Plus, this Azazel guy has a hell of a lot of pull with the military, so he’s passing this whole thing off as a historical exhibit.”

“Awesome,” Dean grumbles, hefting his bag back up onto his shoulder from where it had started to slip. “You see this son of a bitch sub yet?”

“Nope,” Sam huffs, lifting a hand to shield a bit of the glare reflecting from the ships.

“That because she’s not up here.” The brothers turn around to find Gabriel standing behind them in an orange leisure suit with a shit-eating grin splitting his face.  Dean groans, dropping his duffle to the ground.

“Swear to God, Gabriel, if you’ve dragged us all the way out here just to make us walk to another goddamn dock I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

“I don’t doubt you would make a valid attempt,” Castiel cuts in smoothly, seemingly sliding up to his brother from nowhere.  He looks just like when the Winchester’s last saw him, rumpled coat, backwards tie, and all. “But if you would finish listening to us before running your mouth, you would find that unnecessary.”

“What the he-... where did he even...” Dean flounders, looking to Sam, who merely shrugs and turns back to Gabriel.

“So where is it, then?” Sam asks as politely as he can manage after a two day drive crammed into the Impala with his brother and Jess, who really do get along way too well for Sam's sanity.  Gabe strides past them lazily, delivers a smart turn on his heel, and sweeps an arm out towards one of the few empty spaces at the dock. Sam gives it a moment, waiting for some kind of elaborate demonstration that seems like it would be right up Gabriel’s alley, but nothing happens.

“Right...” Dean drawls, brow twitching in exasperation. “Look, I’ve had it up to... to... to _Sam_ with the two of you-”

“Hey!” 

“You’re taller than me," Dean shrugs. "Anyways, this was obviously a horrible, _horrible_ mistake in judgement, so I’m gonna get my shit and go.” He leans down and grabs his bag as Gabriel pouts at the ocean.

“I coulda sworn I had timed that right...” he mumbles, pulling out his phone and swiping through a couple of text messages.  Dean just shakes his head and starts walking back to the parking lot, fed up with this fucking millionaire and his fucking purple ascot and who the fuck wears white dress shoes onto a submarine anyway-

Cas’ hand, suddenly pressing against Dean's chest, pins him in his place.  He frowns at Cas as he tries to push his way past, but goddamn if that man isn’t hiding a hell of a lot of muscle under that baggy coat.  Like a steel beam, Cas’ arm doesn’t budge.

“How’re you-”

“Wait,” Castiel murmurs, low and sure. “Just wait a moment.  You’ll see her.” Something about the quiet certainty in his voice has Dean willing to listen.  With a skeptical look at Cas, he sighs and turns back to Sam, Gabe, and the docks.  Sam shrugs at him, figuring that they’ve come this far, they might as well humor whatever their new friends have going on, but Dean doesn’t return his expression.  Instead, he gapes wide-eyed and open mouthed at something behind his brother.  Sam straightens up, going on the offensive, and tentatively turns around as well.

Where there was once an empty expanse of ocean, a hulking metal behemoth is breaching the surface, spilling gallons upon gallons of water down its sides as it rises above the dock.  Meter by meter, the ship grows more impressive, people all along the boardwalk stopping to stare at the menacing structure that’s now groaning and creaking and whirring, revealing itself to the world.

“There she is!” Gabriel yells over the steadily increasing noise. “That’s my beautiful girl!” With a final deluge of water running off of the sides, the sub finishes its ascent, revealing the bright white lettering gracing the black steel of the outer hull.

“Seriously?” Dean deadpans. “That’s what you fucking named it?”

“The U.S.S. Perdition?” Even Sam, who was usually happy to just let others have their eccentricities and support their creative choices, was side-eyeing the sub pretty hard.  Gabriel turns to him with a genuinely gleeful smile.

“Isn’t she just gorgeous!  Greatest thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on!”

“It certainly is impressive,” Castiel offers. “It’s far larger than I had anticipated...”

“You mean you hadn’t seen it yet?” Dean asks, stunned.

“No, I hadn’t.”

“So then how could you be so sure that-”

“I trust my brother,” Castiel shuts him down simply, striding forward along the dock to stand next to Gabriel.

“Well come on then,” their exuberant host beckons them forward. “Let me give you the grand tour!” Dean can feel his left eye start to twitch as Gabe jaunts happily down the dock.  Sam just shakes his head.

“So this is it, huh?” he sighs, turning back to Dean. “Moment of truth.  We get on that boat, we’re in this to the end.”

“I guess...” Dean is really starting to fucking hate this whole idea.  That boat is just one massive, glorified metal death trap, waiting to pin him and a couple truckloads of other people uncomfortably close together between its carbon-whatever walls, beneath thousands of pounds of ocean water pressure.  At least on a plane, you can parachute out if you’ve got to.  Dean glowers at the sub for a few more seconds before he checks back in and realizes Sam is still talking.

“-ing to be a while before we get another chance, you know?  So don’t you think it might be a good idea to, uh... call Bobby?”

“No.” Dean cuts across Sam immediately, hefting his bag back onto his shoulder and making a direct beeline for what’s probably gonna be the worst "three to six" weeks of his life.

“Dean, c’mon!” It doesn’t take long for Sam to catch up, his own duffel slung across his back. “You can’t just leave things like this-”

“I can leave things however the hell I want to,” Dean grumbles, reaching the gangway and ignoring the niggling feeling in his stomach saying this was a bad, bad idea. “He lied to us, Sam.  He fed us a pile of bullshit and let me fucking hope, for years, that-” Dean cuts himself off, breaking his gait for a moment to swallow back a lump quickly forming in the back of his throat.

“Okay, yeah.  That was a shitty thing to do,” Sam takes advantage of Dean’s pause and reaches out, pulling his brother's shoulder around to look him in the eyes. “But you can’t tell me that you don’t understand why he did it.”

“You can’t possibly be trying to justify-”

“Can you honestly tell me that the first thing you would have done once he told you what what happened _wouldn’t_ have been to go off on some ridiculous stunt like, oh, what we’re about to actually do, only by yourself with half of a plan and no resources, all in the name of ‘finishing the job?’”

“That’s not what would’ve-”

“Oh come off it, Dean. You’ve always been ridiculous when it came to following Dad, and you would have been just as utterly unprepared as he was and followed him right into death.  Bobby knew that.  So yeah, he lied to us, because at the time, neither of us were ready to deal with the truth.  But hey, he’s the one who called these guys, right?  Now we have equipment, we have professionals on our team, and we can actually do this together.  Doesn’t that count for something?” For a moment, Sam thinks he’s actually won.  Dean falls silent, gritting his teeth and locking his jaw.  The silence is a tense one, and Sam’s just about to say something more when Dean squares his shoulders and lifts his head, looking down at Sam from his spot on the ramp almost defiantly.

“Yeah, sure.  Something. How ‘bout you send him a goddamn cookie.” Dean turns on his heel, dropping his duffel and leaving Sam behind on the gangway with both of their bags.  As he steps onto the sub and peers into hatch that Cas and Gabe had disappeared through moments before, he pushes down the dread creeping up his spine and grimaces.

‘" _Perdition"_ ,’ he thinks to himself, shaking his head as he begins the climb down. ‘ _Pretentious asshole. This is gonna be fucking hell_.’

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be my DCBB, but it blew way out of proportion and became a much bigger project than I had anticipated. That said, I'm still massively excited and want to share this with everyone! It's unbeta'ed, so please excuse any mess!


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